I can crack an egg one handed
Two at a time
I can hold a note
I can play guitar
Do both while keeping time
I can run a hundred miles in
A week or maybe two
But there's nothing I can do
To impress you
I can write a poem
I can make each stanza rhyme
I know what terza rima is
Who wrote in it and why
I can quote foucault by page number
And know just what he means
But there's nothing I can do to make you
Notice me
I can bake sourdough on sunday
With a crust as crisp as leaves
And I could brew an ale
That'd bring goliath to his knees
I can cook a steak on a cast iron pan
On the highest heat
But I cannot make you fall in love with me
I could write the saddest songs that
Make you wanna cry
I could climb the fire escape
Sing through your screen tonight
I could write your name on paper and
Then set it all alight
But the flames are always technicolor
I tastes like home, I should know better
I claw and scratch and beg, but it disappears without a letter
For everything I am, for my powers and my plan, for my bones of salt and sand
You my love will never hold my hand